La Vita e Belle
by yassandra
Summary: Moments in the lives of all our favourite Atlantis characters. A series of unrelated oneshots!
1. In Vino Veritas

A/N I thought I'd try a new venture here. A series of unrelated oneshots about all our favourite Atlantis characters. Prompts will be more than welcome.

I tried hard to write a bit of humorous fluff for this first one but seem to have strayed off into hurt/comfort and angst at the end - oh well I'll have to try harder next time!

Please review.

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**In Vino Veritas – In Wine Truth**

"He isn't! Please tell me he isn't!" Pythagoras' mouth hung open in shock.

"He is," Hercules snorted.

"But he doesn't normally..." the young genius almost wailed.

"I know," replied Hercules, "but it seems he has tonight."

The object of their current scrutiny was sitting – well swaying – on a bench talking very loudly to a very large, vicious looking man, occasionally jabbing a finger at the man's chest. He seemed completely oblivious to the growing anger on the face of the man he was talking to and of the group of thugs forming around him.

Pythagoras and Hercules exchanged a worried and exasperated glance before hurrying forward to rescue their friend.

It was apparent from the way he jumped that Jason hadn't noticed they were there until Pythagoras rested a hand on his shoulder. He blinked up at his friends blearily, as though trying to place them, then beamed brilliantly as he realised who it was.

"Hi," he slurred brightly. He turned to the glowering man he had been previously talking to. "Look iss my friends, Pyf... Pyf... Pyfagoras and...," he frowned as his memory briefly deserted him, "and the fat one," he finished triumphantly.

Pythagoras nearly groaned aloud, eyeing up the number of empty flagons on the table in front of his friend. Even Hercules looked slightly impressed at the number, although he was obviously still annoyed at the 'fat one' comment.

"Is he with you?" the vicious looking man growled.

"Possibly," Hercules answered cautiously, studiously ignoring the elbow in his ribs from Pythagoras.

"He spilt my drink and then started talking nonsense at me," the other man grumbled. "I was just going to invite him to come outside to discuss it."

"No need for that," Hercules answered. "Let me buy you another drink. We're all friends here." He led the angry man back to the 'bar', mouthing over his shoulder at Pythagoras to get Jason out of there as he went.

The blonde mathematician turned back to his dark haired companion.

"How many of those are yours?" he asked, indicating towards the empty flagons.

"Wha?" Jason asked.

Pythagoras sighed.

"Never mind," he said. "I'm guessing you've probably drunk all of them... which is impressive even by Hercules' standards. Come on, let's get you home." _And sobered up_, he added silently.

Jason pulled his arm out of Pythagoras' grasp, nearly falling off the bench as he did.

"Naw," he slurred. "I want anuvver drink."

Pythagoras sighed again.

"I think you've probably had more than enough for one night."

Jason shook his head mulishly.

"I want anuvver drink!"

"Urm... they've run out," Pythagoras answered, thanking the gods that he had plenty of experience at getting a drunken Hercules home. "I think we've got some wineskins at home though..."

He managed to manhandle Jason into a standing position and slung one of his friend's arms over his shoulders, grasping him firmly around the waist. Slowly they weaved their way out the door, thankfully not bumping into too many tables on their way.

If Pythagoras had been hoping that the fresh night air would sober his friend up any, he was sadly disappointed. He started to guide Jason down the street, in the general direction of their house, having to put up with the non stop drunken babble that came from his friend.

"I don' unnerstand why you don' have socks here," Jason started. "Or toofpaste. I miss toofpaste."

Pythagoras would have found what he was saying intriguing (and definitely amusing) if he hadn't been concentrating quite so hard on getting Jason to walk in a straight line.

"An' who puts babies out to die? Iss inhuman, thas what it is. I don' really unnerstand vis place at all. You've got bull men an' women who see the future an' people who kill people over... fings!" Jason waved his hand as though trying to elaborate, narrowly avoiding hitting both himself and Pythagoras in the face.

Pythagoras rolled his eyes and pulled Jason in a little tighter to his side, trying to keep the brunette upright as he lurched alarmingly to one side. The soft noise of approaching feet made him turn nervously, worried that they were about to be set upon by thieves or city guards or someone equally undesirable. He pushed Jason into the wall.

"Stay here," he admonished, before stepping towards the shape that began to materialise out of the darkness. As he peered into the gloom the figure coalesced into the familiar shape of Hercules. Pythagoras breathed a sigh of relief.

"What kept you?" he asked.

"Sorry," Hercules answered. "I had to buy them a few drinks to calm them down... and promise that Jason would never go in that tavern again..." He looked around Pythagoras. "Where is he anyway?"

Pythagoras turned with a growing feeling of dread.

"I left him right there!" he exclaimed.

A sudden giggle came out of the darkness and made him look up. He instantly wished he hadn't. He gave another long suffering sigh.

"Come down from there Jason," he said, exasperated.

Jason giggled again, swaying alarmingly where he was perched on the edge of a roof.

"Nah," he said. "I like it up here... the stars are all twinkly an' pretty." He frowned. "Still want anuvver drink though."

Hercules grinned openly at Pythagoras.

"And you say I'm bad," he said. "How much has he had to drink anyway?"

"You saw the flagons," the blonde hissed. "How in the name of the gods are we going to get him down from there?"

"They were all his?" Hercules looked impressed. He turned back to Jason. "You're not going to get another drink from up there," he informed his friend. "You'll have to come down and come home... we've got wine at home."

The brunette seemed to think it over.

"Ok," he said. He slid down a ladder that someone had carelessly left leaning against the wall, landing in a heap at the bottom, still giggling.

Hercules and Pythagoras exchanged a brief look. Hoisting Jason up between them, they made their way unsteadily down the street towards home.

* * *

Pythagoras was grateful that the rest of the journey home had gone uneventfully, although Hercules had retreated to his room as soon as they had arrived, leaving Pythagoras to try to get an extremely drunk Jason into bed. He looked fondly at his friend who was now nodding on the stool that they had deposited him on as soon as they had come through the door. Really it was a miracle that Jason had not passed out on the way home – which would have made it much harder to manoeuvre him. The blonde frowned. He was more than a little confused. It was unlike Jason to drink heavily – he usually left that up to Hercules – so Pythagoras was concerned about what had caused his actions tonight.

He was shaken out of his reverie by the sound of Jason going through the cupboards with all the finesse of a baby Minotaur. Pythagoras muttered a prayer for patience.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"I've got the munchies," Jason announced brightly.

Pythagoras looked at his friend in confusion. He really had no idea what 'the munchies' were but on reflection, and after careful observation of Jason trying to get some olives out of a jar, concluded that it was probably something to do with food. He rolled his eyes and took the jar away from Jason before something got broken, pushing his friend back onto a stool and reaching for a cup of water with his other hand.

"Drink," he said sternly.

"This issn' beer," Jason slurred, wrinkling his nose, "Tisn't even coke."

"I have no idea what 'beer' or 'coke' are, but I think you would be better off with water anyway," the young genius responded. "Trust me, you'll thank me in the morning."

He sat down quietly on another stool, the silence only broken by his friend slurping noisily from the cup. After he was satisfied that Jason had drunk enough water, he hoisted his friend up and across the room, depositing him on his bed and turning to retrieve a bowl in case Jason needed to throw up in the night. He turned back to his now apparently sleeping friend and sighed sadly.

"What's going on with you Jason?" he asked the air, not expecting an answer. "Why would you suddenly get this drunk?"

"Cos iss tonight," Jason was obviously not quite asleep but certainly sounded very drowsy now. "I always get drunk tonight."

Pythagoras was decidedly confused.

"What's so special about tonight?" he asked.

"Iss the night b'fore tomorrow," responded Jason as if it were the most obvious thing in the world and Pythagoras was just being dense.

"I don't understand."

"Look iss like vis," Jason answered, "I always get drunk tonight cos of tomorrow, see? Tomorrow's my birfday an' I don' like my birfday an' I go out an' have a couple of drinks to forget iss my birfday." He pursed his lips, running his tongue over his teeth. "An' I _still_ miss toofpaste," he proclaimed before finally passing out.

* * *

Jason woke up to an empty room the next morning. He opened his eyes to a bright morning and immediately wished that he hadn't – or that death would come quickly. He covered his face with his hands as he tried to stop the room from spinning and desperately tried to fill in the blanks in his memory. He could remember going to a tavern to have a couple of drinks – although the way his head was pounding clearly told him that he had spectacularly failed to stop at just a couple – but beyond that there was nothing. He cracked open one eye and carefully peered under the blanket, sighing in relief when he found that he was still fully clothed (there had been one memorable occasion when he had woken up in a strange bathtub wearing nothing but an unfamiliar overcoat). The presence of a bowl and a cup of water alongside him indicated that someone had put him to bed last night. He guessed fuzzily that it was probably Pythagoras because he couldn't see Hercules arranging his sandals quite that neatly. So then, he'd gone out for a few drinks and Pythagoras had ended up putting him to bed – that just left a few hours in the middle unaccounted for (at least he could be grateful that they didn't have traffic cones in Atlantis – he really didn't want to remember the night before his 21st). He tried to sit up but gave up on that idea when the drummer that seemed to have taken up residence in his skull started an extended solo and the room tilted and spun alarmingly. Letting himself fall back onto the pillow and covering his face with his hands again, he failed to notice the door quietly opening and soft footsteps coming across the room.

"Oh God," he moaned. "How much of a skinfull did I have last night?"

"Well since I don't know what a 'skinfull' is I can't really answer that," Pythagoras' voice sounded light and amused.

Jason started in surprise and opened his eyes wide, wincing at the bright light, as the mattress dipped beside him. Pythagoras had sat down on the edge of the bed and was grinning at him in open amusement.

"I was talking to myself," Jason said, awkwardly. "I was just wondering how much I had to drink last night."

"Quite a lot I would say. You certainly appeared to have had a 'skinfull'," Pythagoras pronounced the word carefully. "Why are you feeling a bit delicate this morning?" he smiled broadly.

Jason glared at him.

"I hate you," he said without any rancour. "Do you have to be so bloody cheerful? I just want to die in peace."

Pythagoras looked momentarily confused.

"I don't think you're actually going to die – Hercules never does – and I am fairly certain that I don't have any blood on me..."

Jason sighed.

"I didn't mean actual blood," he said. "It's just a phrase from where I come from. Listen, what did I actually do last night?" he tried to change the subject slightly.

Pythagoras raised one eyebrow.

"So you don't remember drinking so much that even Hercules was impressed, nearly starting a bar fight and ending up climbing onto a roof and refusing to come down because the stars were 'all twinkly and pretty' then?"

Jason groaned.

"Pyth, I am so sorry," he said, the nickname he had privately given Pythagoras coming out unconsciously. Pythagoras raised his eyebrow even further at the name but wisely chose not to mention it.

"Do not worry. You did not do anything particularly bad or unpleasant. You are at least a friendly drunk – I think you spent more time giggling than anything else – well that and telling me how much you missed 'toofpaste'."

"Still sorry." Jason looked at his friend appealingly. "I don't do that very often."

"No, I gathered that," answered Pythagoras, "although you did tell me that you were drinking because it was the night before your birthday and you wanted to forget – you also implied that you do this every year."

Jason blushed and looked away.

"Kind of," he said uncomfortably.

"So you were celebrating then?"

"Not exactly," Jason paused. "I'm not all that fond of my birthday so I tend to get drunk to forget it's happening – never really works but it always seems like a good idea at the time."

Pythagoras looked at his friend sadly – in his opinion birthdays were not something a person should want to forget and he didn't really understand why Jason would want to.

"Why does your birthday upset you so much?" he asked.

Jason had half sat up by this time and was looking down at his hands and picking at loose threads on the edge of the blanket.

"It's the one time of year when I really feel lonely," he answered quietly. "You'd think it would be Christmas but there's always light and colour then, and even if I'm on my own I can always hope that I won't be next year..." he trailed off.

Pythagoras had only understood about half of what the brunette had said but what he did pick up made his heart ache for his friend. He reached behind his back and pulled out a small wrapped package, trying to muster his former bright smile.

"Happy birthday," he said as he handed the small parcel over. "I just thought... well anyway..."

Jason's eyes betrayed his surprise. He turned the package over and over in his hands almost reverently.

"I don't remember the last time I had a birthday present," he almost whispered.

Pythagoras put a hand over his.

"You can open it you know," he encouraged, hiding the sorrow he felt at seeing his friend look so vulnerable.

Jason smiled softly, genuinely, in response and started to carefully unwrap the parcel. It was only a small coin pouch – nothing particularly special in Pythagoras' eyes (and certainly less than he felt his friend deserved) – but the look on Jason's face indicated that he thought it was the best thing in the world. He launched himself at the surprised mathematician and wrapped his arms firmly around the blonde's slim waist, burying his face in his friend's thin shoulder. Pythagoras patted his back awkwardly and petted the dark hair, aware that Jason's shoulders were shaking slightly and that the shoulder of his tunic was getting suspiciously wet.

Eventually Jason lifted his face and sniffed, wiping at his pink rimmed eyes.

"Sorry," he muttered. "It's just... I never thought... you really are the kindest man I've ever met."

Pythagoras blushed.

"It's nothing," he said and smiled at Jason. "We shall have a proper celebration when Hercules gets back."

Jason smiled almost shyly back at him.

"Next time though, talk to me instead of drinking that much," the blonde added. "It is not good for you to bottle things up. Believe me I know from experience." He smiled again.

Jason nodded in agreement.

"And later you can tell me what 'toofpaste' and 'coke' are," Pythagoras said.


	2. Know You're Not Alone

A/N Thank you for the review.

Now this was supposed to be a nice little angsty oneshot about the lives of our three favourite idiots before the series (can I use the words _nice_ and _angsty_ in the same sentence?). Instead it seems to have turned into a nearly 6000 word monster! Can't really split it though so I've left it whole.

Once again please be kind and review (and give me prompts if you feel like it) - I do love reviews!

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_The trouble it might drag you down_

_If you get lost, you can always be found_

_Just know you're not alone_

_Cause I'm gonna make this place your home_

_(Home – Phillip Phillips)_

* * *

By the time he is twenty-five Hercules already feels old. Not that he will ever admit that to anyone. As far as the world is concerned he is the fastest, most agile, bravest man in all Atlantis. It's not true of course – it never has been. It's just a story that he tells people – that he tells himself. But sometimes in the dark, in the still of the night, when he can no longer pretend to himself, he knows that it isn't true – knows that all he has ever been is a wannabe. It hurts to think of it; hurts to accept that he'll never be the hero that he grew up dreaming he'd be.

He works on the docks or on building sites most of the time and frequents the taverns in the evenings, telling tall tales to anyone that will listen in exchange for drinks.

He is in the tavern when the news is announced that a new prince has been born – a son for the King and Queen. He celebrates with the other patrons, drinking to the baby's health, wetting his head. Two days later the King announces a pankration to be held when the child is three months old – to allow visitors to arrive from the surrounding city states. Hercules briefly considers entering – he is still young enough, could even be fit enough if he really tried – but decides in the end that it would be too much effort. Of course he tells people (tells himself) that it is just to give the other competitors a fighting chance – but in the still of the night he can acknowledge the truth even if it is only to himself.

The pankration is like nothing Hercules has ever experienced. He has been to pankrations before of course, but this one is bigger, brighter, more colourful than any he has seen before. He sits in the stands and eats the free pies, drinks the free wine and enjoys the spectacle. Before the final contest the King brings out his family to see and be seen by the crowd. The Queen is as coldly beautiful as ever, she looks at the crowd with barely concealed disdain, eyeing her husband with the same expression, her gaze only softening when she looks at the small baby in her husband's arms. The Queen's nephew, the Lord Heptarian, just five years old, watches the contest with fascination, eyes burning as though he longs to be out on the sand himself. King Aeson is serene, smiling benevolently at the crowd, when he can tear his eyes away from the blanket wrapped bundle in his arms. It is the first glimpse that the citizens of Atlantis have had of their new prince and the atmosphere is electric – with the birth of the boy the future of the city seems secure. Nothing is certain of course, everyone knows that not all children survive childhood, but the baby seems healthy and all the auguries are good. There are rumours that the child is blessed – has been touched by the Gods themselves. Hercules cannot be sure at this distance but he thinks he sees a shock of dark hair poking out from the swaddling clothes.

He celebrates late into the night, drinking more than is good for him and ending the evening with Serena the butcher's sister against a wall behind the back of the bathhouse. Her breath is hot on his neck and his hands roam under her tunic, kissing passionately until both their mouths are swollen and red.

He is in the tavern again a couple of years later when the coup begins – when the news that the king has been deposed and the little prince has been killed comes through. Rumours abound that the Queen is behind the plot; that she has taken the new King, Minos, as a lover; that the baby was killed by accident (although surely King Minos cannot be unhappy at the death of a possible rival for the throne); that the Queen is distraught at the death of her child; that she will not leave her room. He is still there when martial law is imposed, when the soldiers come and tell the people that there is a new curfew, that they must return to their homes between the hours of sunset and sunrise, and that no resistance to the new rule will be tolerated.

He sits in his house alone and looks bleakly out of his window, feeling the world shifting beneath his feet, and feeling a darkness creeping into his soul.

* * *

When Pythagoras is six he realises that the world is not perfect, that his parents are not perfect. He lies in the darkness, listening to his parents raised voices and his father's raised fists and knows, just knows, that he will not let himself be like his father – that he will never treat anyone the way his father treats his mother.

He is different from the other boys on Samos, is more delicate in his build, more interested in words and learning than in normal childhood games. The other children think he is strange but it doesn't bother him. He is full of questions and ideas and dreams, asks them of any adult who will listen. The doctor in their little community is particularly kind and answers the small boy's questions seriously, accepting that the child is far beyond his years in terms of intelligence, that he needs stimulating.

Pythagoras is clever; Pythagoras is gentle; Pythagoras is kind. His father despises him for it. Looks at his son with contempt. Blames his wife in his drunken way for what he believes is his son's weirdness. She is pregnant again and her husband dreams of having a "normal" son, a son he can be proud of. So although he still hits her whenever he is in a drunken stupor, he makes sure never to hurt the baby.

When Arcas is born, Pythagoras looks at him in wonder. His mother smiles at him – that bright beautiful smile she reserves just for him, that he only sees when his father is not there – and tells him that his little brother is his to protect, to teach. She hopes, in her quiet mousy way, that her elder son will find the strength to survive his father; that now he has a new son her husband might be kinder. It is a vain hope of course – he is already at the tavern with his friends wetting the new baby's head.

That night, when he comes home drunk as usual, he will beat her worse than ever – she is not carrying his new child now – and when Pythagoras tries to stop him, tries to intervene to protect the mother he adores and the new brother he is already learning to love, his father will hit him for the first time, will throw him bodily across the room, his thin frame hitting the floor with a resounding thud.

It will be a long time before her boy will stand up for himself again – although he will always heed her words, will always try to protect his brother – instead he will lie there in his bed in the darkness, holding Arcas in his arms and crying as he listens to the sounds of his father beating his mother.

* * *

By seven Jason has already started the long process of disappearing from sight, of vanishing into the background, becoming part of the wallpaper. He hears his social worker talking sometimes when she thinks he isn't listening, or doesn't understand what she is saying. He may be a child but he isn't stupid – knows he is a problem, that he is unwanted. He may not understand all the big words she uses but he hears their meaning loud and clear.

His bag is permanently packed, he has moved too many times over the last two years since his father disappeared – from children's home to foster parents and back again multiple times. They are always kind of course and there are always good reasons why he can't stay – but he knows that it's really because he isn't good enough, that there is something wrong with him. His social worker almost said so the last time she brought him back to the children's home – at least he thinks that's what she was saying.

Jason tries to be a good boy – tries to fit in at school and at home, but somehow it never quite works. His status as an orphan marks him as different in school – other children in his class may only have one parent but he is the only one who has neither parent. As a seven year old he is less likely to be adopted – most families want babies – and his by now less than trusting nature tends to put people off (so does his stubborn insistence that one day he _will_ find out what happened to his father).

He dreams of a city sometimes. A city unlike anything he has ever seen, even in picture books. A city of low stone buildings, with a palace and a temple (why does he think of a temple rather than a church?) sitting on a hill. A city bathed in sunshine, with streets of dust, and vendors selling bright, luscious, ripe fruits. Sometimes when he wakes he tries to draw the city of his dreams but nothing he draws is ever good enough, cannot capture the images he sees in his sleep.

Somehow the waking world cannot ever compare to the world of his dreams, so he lives inside his head and slowly disappears from the eyes of the world.

* * *

At twelve Pythagoras thinks he must know what Hades is like – thinks that it must be like his home after his father has been at the tavern. Time has not blunted his father's rage; he has been corroded by his life; is dangerous and, more often than not, drunk. Arcas at six has become the opposite of Pythagoras at the same age, but not even that can please their father now. His once slim body is running to fat, teeth yellowed, hair thinned, eyes pouchy and red. He still believes it is all his wife's fault; hers and her freakish older son's – he cannot think of Pythagoras as his any more, the boy is simply too much of a disappointment to him.

Pythagoras is grateful for one thing – that so far he has managed to protect Arcas from knowing their father's true nature. Most nights his little brother sleeps through whatever sounds come from the main room in their tiny house and if he does wake Pythagoras is there to hush him and lull him back to sleep without ever being aware of what is going on in the room next door. The twelve year old is still skinny and delicate and small compared to his father, but most nights now he makes sure Arcas is alright and then creeps into the other room, placing himself between his parents and taking a portion of the punishment his father dishes out on himself – saves his mother from extra pain. The bruises are becoming harder to hide from his little brother and he fears that the time is inevitably coming when Arcas must surely learn what Father is really like.

It happens so suddenly he does not have time to sort out his feelings – to understand truly what has happened. He creeps out of his room one night, ready to step between his parents like normal, when he sees it – the glint of metal in his father's hand; the knife he has picked up from the table in his drunken rage. There is no time for fear – he knows, just knows, that this time Father will not stop; that this time he will kill Pythagoras' mother; that if he does then Pythagoras and Arcas may as well be dead too because nothing will stop their father then. So he darts forward and steps between them. Pleads with his father to stop – just to stop. But his father comes at him and he pushes the man away with all his strength. And surely the Gods have given him strength to protect his family because the man staggers, off balance, and in his drunkenness he falls, smacking his head on the corner of the hearth. He does not get up.

Pythagoras' mother takes charge. They must dispose of the body, must get it away from the house or her beautiful golden boy will be branded a murderer. The child is just beginning to feel the enormity of what he has done – she can see the guilt rising in his eyes – and although she longs to comfort the boy, to make sure that he knows he is not to blame, that everything that has happened is the result of his father's actions and no one else's, there simply isn't time. She can comfort him later (although deep down she knows that by that time the claws of guilt will have wrapped themselves around her son's heart). Now she must act. Between them, she and Pythagoras drag her husband's body down near the docks – best for everyone if it looks like a robbery gone wrong or that he was meeting a stranger and quarrelled – before returning home to wash the blood from the hearth. There will be no real investigation – her husband was not a popular man – owed too much money and was a little too free with his fists when he was drunk. Her boy is safe.

But in the still of the night, when there is nothing to drown out the voices in his head, Pythagoras hears it, the repeated whisper, over and over again: Murderer.

* * *

By the time he is fifteen Jason is a ghost, gliding silently through his own life unnoticed by the world. He is tall for his age and skinny – body not yet hardened into manhood. He could be good at sports if he tried – can run further and swim faster than the other children his age – but sports is not his thing, does not hold his interest. His social worker worries about him. She is a kind woman and cannot understand why he has never settled into a foster home – staying a month here, a couple of months there. It is not as if his behaviour is a problem. Unlike some of the other boys she deals with, Jason has never been in trouble with the law, has never been violent or aggressive, has never acted out. It is simply that he doesn't fit in – doesn't really try to – and has never managed a close relationship with anyone. As far as she can tell he has no real friends – he is affable, friendly and instantly forgettable (through his own choice she feels) – and she finds his ability to slip into the background unnoticed slightly unnerving.

Jason is a fairly clever boy, his grades in school are never bad – although the notes from his teachers indicate that he could excel if he really tried – he just doesn't. The children who taunted him for his differences in primary school now scarcely know he is there. He consciously does nothing to make himself stand out. Even his teachers seem to forget his existence most of the time – all except his history teacher – which coincidentally is the only subject Jason truly allows himself to excel in. He sees Jason as a strange dreamy boy who spends too much time locked in his own head – he is at least partially right.

At eighteen Jason has finished with school and with the foster care system. He is properly on his own for the first time in his life. A decent set of A level results (not outstanding but good enough) have assured him a place on a degree course at the university of his choice – a large institution in a big city where it is easy to be anonymous. He sets off into the unknown on a coach with all his worldly possessions packed into a large rucksack and a small duffel bag, and wonders if what he feels is excitement.

University life is fun and he makes many new acquaintances – but no real friends – it's not that he doesn't try but something always seems to hold him back – to stop him committing fully to a friendship. He joins a couple of clubs – but always stays on the periphery – and spends nights in the student bar discussing his course with the students he is studying with. When he is alone he thinks more about his father, holding his necklace in the palm of his hand, and wonders idly if this is what university was like for him too.

Sometimes he still dreams of the shining city on the hill.

* * *

When he is thirty-five Hercules comes to the realisation that life is passing him by. The friends of his youth are all married and settled now, and somehow he feels he has missed out. He works infrequently. The many times he has failed to turn up because of a hangover or has come to work still drunk have given him a reputation for unreliability – and there are very few men who would welcome an unreliable worker.

One night one of his tavern friends invites him to place a bet on a rat race. He picks a rat at random (he likes the extra long whiskers) and is surprised to find that he is excited for the first time in an age. The city is not as open as it used to be – not as trusting – and Hercules cannot help thinking that it was more than the little prince that died with the palace coup. Not that he would ever say it out loud of course. Contrary to popular opinion he is not completely stupid and most definitely does not have a death wish. He is surprised when his rat wins and feels the first stirrings of what he suspects might be pleasure when his winnings are placed into his hands. It is more money than he has seen in a while – more than he could earn in a week – and he finds himself wanting to make more, win more. From this moment he is hooked.

He eats more than he should and doesn't get anywhere near enough exercise. When he was younger and working at the docks he needed to eat big meals to give him energy, and he has never got out of the habit. Food makes him feel good when he has nothing else to feel good about. He knows he is beginning to get a bit saggy around the middle – nothing to really worry about yet – he can always exercise a bit, burn it off, regain the figure of his youth – but it's all too much effort and anyway it doesn't seem to affect the way the ladies feel about him. He still hasn't lost his touch with the women.

So he smiles at the next pretty girl that catches his eye, bets on another "sure thing", calls for another drink and tells another tall tale – and ignores the hollow feeling in his gut that tells him his life is empty.

* * *

The night before Jason's twenty-fifth birthday he goes to the pub with some of the other diggers from the site and gets hammered. It's not a new thing – he has done this the night before his birthday every year since he was eighteen – but it surprises his co-workers who are more used to him declining invitations for a night out. He ends the evening in the room of one of the girls – she has bubblegum pink hair and piercings in places he doesn't even want to think about and a name that he can't quite remember. It's all very hot and heavy and his hands grope under her T-shirt until it hits him – he feels nothing. He is with her simply because she is there. And he can't go on, can't take advantage of her like that, so he apologises and backs away and continues apologising even as she screams obscenities at him, calling him all the names under the sun – which he probably deserves. He resigns the next day – cannot even look the girl in the face, although he feels her eyes burning into him as he walks away.

He has a reputation for being unobtainable, unavailable, for standoffishness – no one has ever quite managed to breach his defences. He sometimes wonders if it was a mistake to distance himself so much from other people even though he is unsure how he would go about letting them in. He is sick at the time – curled up under a duvet, trying not to hack up a lung, alternating between shivering and sweating, and so dizzy and weak that he can't even find the strength to get up and grab his mobile from the table to call in to work. It takes the site manager three days to notice he isn't there and to send someone around to check that he isn't dead, or hasn't run away, or something. The first Jason knows of it is when his door opens (and it probably says something for how sick he is that he didn't even know he hadn't locked it) and one of the other diggers, a big blonde northern lad called Simon, trundles in.

"Christ," he says looking down at Jason, "you look like shit!"

He calls the doctor before he scurries back to the site, more concerned about catching plague or whatever it is that Jason has than about staying with him. The doctor comes and goes, leaving him pumped full of antibiotics, with a diagnosis of pneumonia and instructions to take his medicine as prescribed, get plenty of rest, drink plenty of fluids and call an ambulance if he starts feeling worse. He sleeps more than he's awake for the next few days, does as he's told, and gradually starts to feel better. When the dig boss calls him a few days later to let him know that he's now unemployed it does not come as a surprise. Time is pressing on any archaeological site and the doctor has already told him that he will need a few weeks to recover – he is young and fit and strong so it shouldn't take him too long to get back on his feet but it is simply more time than his boss can afford to wait.

Losing his job doesn't bother Jason all that much – there are other dig sites and he is already making a name for himself. Like his father before him he specialises in underwater archaeology, and there aren't that many trained archaeologists who are also qualified and experienced divers with both compressed air and nitrox, and who can pilot a mini-sub if necessary. Work is always available if he wants it.

So he spends his summers travelling from dig site to dig site, living out of his rucksack – he never stays in one place for long. In the winter he retreats to his father's old cottage (the only home he's ever really known) which somehow, miraculously, was never sold – was waiting for him to return. He spends the long evenings curled up in front of the fire with a book and a mug of tea and tries to convince himself that he isn't lonely – even though he's been alone for so long that he's no longer sure whether he's lonely or not.

When the chance comes up to spend the summer working on an underwater site in the Aegean with one of his father's old friends, it seems almost too good to be true – like it was meant to be. Jason doesn't hesitate to sign up, exploiting his connection with his father unscrupulously to assure himself of a place on the team. And late one night on Mac's boat, when they have both had a couple of whiskeys and got to talking about the old days, about Mac's memories of Jason's father (it's been so long now since he disappeared that Jason doesn't like to tell Mac that his own memories are hazy at best), it seems like the easiest and most natural thing in the world to persuade the man to take a detour on the way home – to let Jason have a little look at his father's last site; to look for the remains of his sub; to _finally_ get some of the answers he's wanted for so long.

Nothing will dissuade him from taking the sub down. Now that he has finally got the chance to find out what really happened to his dad he is going to take it with both hands. He feels the sub hit the water with a jerk, feels the mechanical arm of the boat disengage and prepares himself to sink into the darkness with excitement building in his chest.

* * *

At twenty-five Pythagoras has finally found a measure of peace. His life is normal, ordinary, orderly and he likes it that way. Like a cat he is very much a creature of habit and he has his routines that he rarely deviates from (he tells himself that if his life feels a bit tedious it is because that is how he wants it). Every morning he rises, eats (if there is any food left in the house) and works at his parchments for a few hours – his latest obsession is triangles. If he has money, he goes to the market, stocks up on food (which he knows Hercules will eat at the first chance), comes home and works on his parchments again. Most evenings Hercules has a meal with him before leaving for the tavern, and most nights Pythagoras ends his day by pouring Hercules into bed. He might be a little bored at times – although he will never admit it even to himself – but at least he is safe and secure and, after his childhood experiences, he knows just how important that is.

He struggles sometimes to remember life before Hercules. He had come to Atlantis as little more than a boy – callow, shy and naïve. In his first week in the city he had been robbed of most of his money, propositioned four times (only one was a woman), and been made to feel like a helpless child. It had not been a happy time. Then one night he had literally bumped into a larger than life drunk and found that in all good conscience he could not leave the man to sleep it off in the gutter. Pythagoras had managed to persuade Hercules to tell him where he lived and had helped him home, not intending to stay. But the man had been so drunk that Pythagoras was worried he would choke on his own vomit in his sleep, so he had stayed the night. That was three years ago and somehow he has never left.

It felt natural that when Hercules was in danger of losing his house through gambling debts, Pythagoras should pay them off. Hercules makes vague noises about paying him back every so often but so far it has never happened. The man is a truly terrible friend at times but he has a big heart, a kind heart, and Pythagoras simply cannot imagine life without him now.

One day he finds that there are pomegranates on sale in the market and guiltily treats himself to one. It is a flavour he remembers well from childhood – his mother used to give him a pomegranate as treat – and one he has always loved. He excuses the expense (because really the money could be better spent on bread and olives or on new parchments for his work) by telling himself that the tributes are to be chosen tomorrow and the day afterwards he could possibly find himself facing the Minotaur – unlikely as that seems. He wanders back to the house with his fruit hidden under his cloak, almost afraid that someone will see – he has nothing to be ashamed of, it's just that worry and guilt are old friends by now.

The seeds are as sweet and succulent and juicy as he remembers them being back on Samos, and he smiles softly to himself at the unusually pleasant memories. When he is finished his hands and mouth are sticky with red juice and he washes himself to avoid getting any marks on his beloved drawings.

Returning once more to his triangles, Pythagoras begins to focus, the world around him receding into the background. A sudden loud bang on the roof, followed by a sharp fall of dust makes him look up, more dust falling around him, and he tuts before turning back to brush the dirt off his parchment.

* * *

Hercules is a drunk and a womaniser and a gambler. He is also a braggart who tells exaggerated tales of past glories to impress people. In his heart of hearts he knows all this just as he knows he is getting old (he is nearing fifty now – an age that he once would have thought positively ancient). The boy he shares a house with is young enough to be his son, although he will never admit that – even to himself.

Somewhere in his life he made a wrong turn, chose the wrong path, though he has no idea when it was. Sometimes it feels like his life crept up on him while he was sleeping, like he was playing a game and then somebody changed the rules while he wasn't looking. He is fat and disillusioned and old (and gods he feels as old as the hills some days).

Tomorrow the tributes will be chosen. Tomorrow he will know whether or not he will live or die. It is the same every year. The nameless dread that takes hold of his stomach. Most years he ignores it, blocks it out by drinking more than usual, but this year he has decided that he wants to know – he will not leave it to fate or chance or whatever you want to call it. This year he will consult the Oracle, will find out what his fate is to be, and, if it is to face the labyrinth, he will know how to act. He has a length of rope hidden in his house (is it really _his_ house any more when Pythagoras paid off his debts to save it?), and he hears the girls in Patmos are very beautiful – he might even try to take Pythagoras with him (although in his heart he doesn't believe the boy will leave Atlantis) – the lad could use a little loosening up after all; could do with seeing a bit of the world.

The guards are busy today and he sees them, as he makes his way back to the house, searching for something or someone from door to door. Hercules smiles. At least he is sure that whatever they are looking for will not be in _his _house.

He is startled to find that Pythagoras is not alone in the house – has a dark haired lad with him. A boy who can be little older than the mathematician himself (and that makes Hercules feel even older). The lad has frightened eyes and is looking around himself in confusion. Hercules is even more shocked to find that this young man is the fugitive the guards are searching for – and Pythagoras has chosen to shelter him. He doesn't think he will ever understand what goes on inside the blonde's head.

Once upon a time he would have listened to dark haired boy's story; once upon a time he might even have agreed to help him. But that was then and this is now, and he wants no trouble from the guards; does not want to draw any attention to himself or his household. So he tells the boy to leave; to be gone by the time he gets back and steps out into the street, trying to ignore the feeling that he has just done something very wrong.

* * *

If you had told Jason a year ago that he would one day be running alongside Hercules and Pythagoras through the streets of a city that bore a startling resemblance to the one from his childhood dreams and trying to escape the city guards, he would have laughed. Even now it seemed insane – like a dream he could never quite wake up from. The only thing was that the longer he stayed in Atlantis the less sure he was of what the dream was – this or his former life. Together the three of them skid around another corner, sandals scrabbling for purchase in the dust, and hare off down another alleyway.

Eventually the sounds of pursuit die away and they slide to a halt, hearts pounding and out of breath. Hercules doubles over, wheezing that he is too old for all this, even as he grins like a boy at the other two. There are times these days when he feels young again – when he feels he is getting the chance to finally fulfil the promise of his youth – and for all his whinging he wouldn't miss a minute of it for the world. It feels good to have the blood pounding in his veins again – for the first time in years he actually feels alive – and he has to admit that outwitting the city guards is fun (even though it isn't exactly hard to do – so easy in fact that it is almost becoming a game between the three of them).

True to form Jason recovers his breath before the other two, bouncing off the wall and spinning to look behind him. Pythagoras, still panting, looks at Hercules and rolls his eyes – he can never quite work out where Jason's boundless energy comes from. Still his life is a lot less boring than it used to be even if there is a certain amount of danger involved. He laughs without really knowing why and slings an arm around Hercules' shoulders. Looking between both his friends with pleasure.

As they make their way back to the house, Jason lets himself slip behind the other two, smiling fondly at their backs as he listens to their banter and antics. Individually they are like three pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that never quite fit in – were somehow in the wrong box – together they are a whole – together they are home. Lost in his own thoughts he doesn't notice Pythagoras looking back over his shoulder at him quizzically or that he has fallen back and is now several yards behind his friends. He smiles again at the thought – he finally has friends. Looking up he sees the other two waiting for him at the corner of the street and jogs to catch up.

"Why are you so happy?" Pythagoras asks, noting Jason's smile.

"I was just thinking about jigsaws," he answers, "and about what makes a place a home"

Pythagoras looks confused.

"What's a jigsaw?" he asks.


End file.
